If the woman does the choosing, the yessing and noing, what do I have to be to be chosen? What compromise to my character and/or lifestyle? Or, how long will it take to wait out my options down to one? I don’t want to wait out my sex drive. It’s hard enough, moving it lower in my priorities. If I wanted a younger woman (and she wanted me), I wouldn’t whine about a sex life. I like women my age, but I am an impractical option to them as long as sex is important to me. If I were at least a carpenter or plumber, I’d be allowed to hang around. Are women who have never had gratifying sex (and for whom men would be their preferred partners) simply waiting out the male sex drove to winnow out a “companion”? I know sex doesn’t last forever, but while it lasts I’d like to put it to good use–that is, have it with someone who feels the same way. But it’s not my choice and the chooser doesn’t care.

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There is a lot to life. I still have dreams, but they aren’t those of my youth, when I wanted to be a cowboy and a fireman and a baseball player. Reality, responsibility, practicality, low self-esteem turned those dreams to smoke. I even thought I would be a writer. But everything’s so hard. My needs seem simpler, but I can’t imagine attaining them. A lifetime of everyday responsibility has not prepared me for attending to my needs, which are not a bill to pay or a job to get to on time. The life prescribed by society is not mine at all. How do I get from it what it seems to have made no provision for? Playing by the sanctioned rules wins only trifles of that game and only amounts to a tease to keep playing. I’ve always hated playing, always knew there was nothing in it for me, no reward worth having, much less keeping; but tired of fighting or trying to play by my own rules, I would fall miserably back in line to give the pretense another go. That’s life–mine anyway: A run at freedom on a tether too short, a glimpse of my true self from too far away, then a return to the herd and my tattered blinders. Who do I think I am?

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It’s easy to settle into a life, even an uneasy one. Singlehood may be a freedom, but it’s an incomplete one. There’s only so much I can supply myself. I would like to share, but the longer I live with my “little ways” the more covetous of them and embarrassed by them I become. These ways are what I have. I resist making them what I am. Most of them are filler, ritual replacing necessity. That necessity: Don’t I think about it all the time? What could I give up to allow someone intimately into my life? Which “ways” must they displace to justify companionship? I’ve settled into such a practical life that even intimacy must be judged against practical standards, which have already pretended to exclude it. New standards are in order.